Chapter Four
Isla
"Don't touch her, you bastard." Brantley jerks beside me, mumbling in his sleep. His body is tense, his hands clenched into tight fists. Sweat drips from his hair and clings to his shirt as his mind battles whatever demons haunt him.
"Brantley," I whisper, gently reaching up to stroke my hand down the side of his arm. I move carefully, afraid to startle him. He said he didn't like to be touched.
"Don't touch her," he groans again.
My heart clenches, tears welling in my eyes. God, the pain in his voice is devastating. I know my sister liked Bellamy Hill, but I don't think she knew who he really was. At this point, I'm not sure anyone knew the man behind the mask he presented to the world. At least, no one except Brantley and his mom. And the glimpses I'm getting from Brantley of who that real man might have been are horrific.
What our bio-mom did was messed up. It was wrong. She was a selfish, self-absorbed woman who couldn't see past her own insecurities lashing out at two little girls she was supposed to protect.
I think Brantley's father was something worse.
And what he put him through was bad. Really bad.
Even now, it torments him. The pain lingers in his eyes when he's awake. It haunts his mind when he's asleep. He spent years trying to drink it away. But the thing about pain? You can't drown it in the bottle of a bottle. And you can't retroactively turn yourself into someone awful enough to have deserved the painful things that were done to you. I may not know a lot about how the world works, but I know that much. I spent enough time in therapy to learn that much.
Brantley didn't get his father killed. But for some reason, he's hellbent on letting everyone believe he's responsible. I'm not entirely sure why. But it's starting to worry me. Is he trying to protect Bellamy's memory? Is he trying to keep the truth from coming out? Or is it worse than that? Is he punishing himself because he thinks it's what he deserves? I'm not sure. But whatever the reason…it's obviously weighing heavily on his mind. Even asleep, he's suffering over it.
"No. Don't," he groans, jerking again.
"Brantley, wake up." I cup his cheek, stroking his stubbly beard. "You're safe. I'm right here."
I think he hears me, or he recognizes my touch. Even before he wakes, his body relaxes. He leans into my hand, sighing softly. And then his eyes flash open, locking with mine. He blinks me into focus, fear and pain bleeding from the depths of his eyes.
"Isla, shit," he whispers, his voice a rough rasp of sound. "I fell asleep."
"We both did." I stroke his jaw again, giving him a tiny smile. Maybe I should feel shy or something after what we did, but I don't. It's odd. With most of the world, I find myself keeping large parts of myself hidden, hesitant to share them. With him, I don't feel the same way. I want to split myself open at the seams and expose every messy piece.
"Fuck. I'm probably crushing you." His muscles coil like he's going to launch himself off the couch away from me.
I immediately lock my legs around his hips, stopping him. "Don't go," I whisper when his gaze lands on my face again. "You're not hurting me." I smile again. "I kind of like you right where you are."
He doesn't return my smile. He seems…stressed.
"I had a nightmare," he mutters.
"Yeah, you did. If you're worried that I'm going to ask you about it, I'm not," I promise. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to tell me."
He stares at me for a long moment and then sighs softly and rolls us so we're face to face on our sides, our legs tangled together. "Anyone ever tell you that you're a curious little bird, baby?"
"A few times." I grin at him as he reaches up, brushing tendrils of hair behind my ear. "But seriously, I get it. I never liked when people pried into my stuff. I'm not going to pry into yours. I just…" I bite my lip. "I hope you talk to someone."
"I do." He clears his throat. "Daniel is my sponsor."
My brows furrow. "The cowboy at your office?"
"That's the one."
"I thought you said he was your assistant."
"No, I said he claims he's my assistant," he mutters, affectionate exasperation in his tone. "He hired himself. Don't fucking ask me why. He's a trained psychologist. That's what he should be doing instead of harassing me all goddamn day."
"Maybe that is what he's doing," I suggest, fighting a smile.
"Yeah, maybe." He brushes his thumb along my bottom lip. "He hired himself right after…" His throat works as he swallows. "Shit, it's complicated."
"You don't have to tell me."
"My father was an addict," he says anyway. "He hid it well because it wasn't often. At least not at first. He'd take a few days off and go on a bender or spend weekends high as a kite. It's like he was Jekyll and Hyde. Sober, he treated us well. High, he'd get violent."
I scoot closer to him, listening intently.
"For a while, my mother bore the brunt of his rage. But I heard him hurting her one day, and I just…had enough. I tried to get him off her." His throat works convulsively, as if he's trying to swallow the painful memories. "He locked me in the closet and left me there, said he was teaching me a lesson," he whispers, his voice cracking. "I spent two days in that fucking closet, only allowed out to use the bathroom."
"Brantley," I whisper as tears spring to my eyes. "How old were you?"
"Nine or ten?" he says, his eyes far away. "As I got older, he was snorting cocaine more often than not when he was home. At work, he managed to maintain the image, but as soon as he walked in the fucking door, the mask was off. If I fucked up, I ended up in the closet. He'd abuse the hell out of her. When I was fourteen or fifteen, I realized if I pissed him off enough, he'd get physical with me and leave her alone. So I did that shit for a few years—pissed him off intentionally so he'd take it out on me instead of her. When I came home from school one day and she had bruises around her throat…I just snapped. I broke his arm, and he kicked me out."
I wrap my arms around him, holding him close as my throat burns. His father was a monster, plain and simple. My God. I can't even imagine what he and his mom went through.
"I was mad as hell," he whispers. "I didn't want to be in that fucking house, but I didn't want her in it alone, either. Without me there, she was on her own. And she couldn't fucking leave because he had control of her money. She was completely dependent on him. She had to sneak money out to make sure I didn't end up on the streets." He shudders in my arms, groaning.
"It wasn't your fault, Brantley. None of it was," I whisper vehemently.
"Wasn't hers either," he says. "He was Bellamy fucking Hill. He knew everyone in Nashville. Hell, he golfed with judges, the former police chief, celebrities…" Brantley snorts. "Even with her fortune, she knew she didn't stand a chance in hell of getting custody if she left when I was a kid. He would have crucified her, and I would have been in that house with him alone."
"Of course it wasn't her fault. Abuse victims aren't villains for staying," I murmur.
"You say that." His eyes lock on my face. "But the world doesn't always see it the same way, little bird. Women are vilified for staying, especially if they've got kids. Especially if the kids are being hurt too. Doesn't matter that both parents are equally responsible for their kids, it's like society expects the burden of parenthood to rest with the mother, especially in situations like this. If a mother doesn't get the kids out, they place the blame on her shoulders. Happens all the goddamn time. And my mother did everything she could to protect me, but if the world knew, they'd ask why she didn't leave. It's the first question they always ask." He blows out a breath. "And the sad fact is…she couldn't leave. You don't get to leave a man like Bellamy Hill and keep your kids."
I guess he's right. The crime is so awful that people don't leave room for nuance or the complexities that come with it. When you're being abused, people expect you to just leave. They don't always consider that sometimes, you can't. Sometimes—frequently—your abuser makes it impossible for you to go. And when you have kids, leaving is even more difficult. Especially when powerful men like Bellamy are involved.
Do you stay and do everything you can to protect your kids, or do you leave and risk leaving them alone with someone you know will hurt them? When your abuser has all the power and influence, the only options are awful options. I can't even imagine having to face that choice. It kills me that anyone has to do it.
"That's why you let people say the things they do, isn't it?" I guess. "You aren't trying to protect his reputation. You're trying to protect her."
"I couldn't figure out why she wouldn't leave him. I'd been out of the house for years. There was nothing left for him to hold over her. No amount of money is worth the shit he put her through." He sighs. "I found out that she has a heart condition. If she left, she couldn't afford the level of treatment she needed. She would have died. So, I made a deal with him. I'd go to work at the company and keep his goddamn secrets, and he wouldn't put his hands on her ever again."
"Brantley," I whisper, my heart aching all over again. God, she must have hated that he made that sacrifice for her.
"It was worth it, baby," he says, conviction ringing in his voice. "She's had the medical care she needs, and he hasn't laid a finger on her."
"And you've been in a different kind of hell," I murmur.
"It was worth it," he says again. "We weren't free of him, but it was as close as we could get." He blows out a breath. "I quit drinking and got my shit together, started investing every dime I could to help get her out of there once and for all."
"Is that why Daniel started as your assistant?"
He nods. "Guess he figured if I was going to be working with the prick every day, I'd need reinforcements."
"He sounds like a good guy."
Brantley snorts. "Baby, he's a pain in my ass. He's the worst goddamn assistant I've ever met. But yeah, he's been useful in other ways. He keeps my head on straight when I need it."
"I'm glad you have him."
He flashes me the hint of a smile. "I'll deny saying it if you repeat it, but me too. I like the fucker. And there's no goddamn way I would have survived the last four years without him."
"I'm so sorry for everything Bellamy put you through, Brantley," I whisper, pressing my forehead up against his. "You're allowed to hate him for it. You're allowed to never forgive him. You're allowed to feel however you feel about him. Your mom is too."
"You're killing me, little bird."
"I don't mean to."
"I know. That's exactly why you're doing it." He angles his head, brushing his lips against mine in a soft kiss. "You don't even realize how fucking magical you are, baby." He kisses me again. "How sweet this mouth is." And again. "How much I'm enjoying being this close to you."
"I'm enjoying it too, Brantley."
His nose bumps against mine. "Good. I want you to enjoy it, Isla."
"I…like you," I whisper.
He grins at me, his eyes far lighter than they were just a few minutes ago. "Keep telling me things like that and you may never get rid of me."
"Maybe I don't want to get rid of you." I hug him to me, squeezing. It's a ridiculous thing to do—hugging him like he's a freaking stuffed bear or something—but he seems to enjoy it because he groans and pulls me closer, burying his face in my hair.
For long moments, we lay just like that before I feel compelled to speak again. "Are you okay now, Brantley?"
"Yeah," he says roughly, clearing his throat. "I'm good, little bird."
"You were dreaming about him, weren't you?"
He sighs. "I always thought the nightmares would get better eventually, but they never really did. The shit still wakes me up most nights. It's ironic really. They're worse now that he's dead than they were before."
I squeeze him again, wishing I could crawl inside him and take up residence there, chase them away for him. "I guess I'll just have to keep them at bay for you," I murmur against his throat. "They'll have to go through me to get to you."
"Yeah? You're going to fight my nightmares for me, little bird?"
"Yep."
"You going to let me fight yours for you? Slay your dragons?"
"I slay my own dragons, Brantley."
"Of course you do." His body shakes, and for a minute, I think he's laughing at me, but then his eyes meet mine. I see the softness there—the emotion—and I realize that isn't the case at all. I think he…admires me.
"You've got me feeling things I shouldn't, Isla," he breathes, staring at me so intently it's like I'm looking inside him, seeing all those pieces of him that he doesn't show to anyone. The world looks at him and sees a failure, someone who fell into addiction because he's a problem. But that's not who he is. He's so much more complicated than that.
He's just a man who lived through hell and tried to survive it, one who fought his way back and found his way. One who sacrificed his own peace of mind to protect his mom. And one who still sacrifices to protect her. He's a man worthy of respect. I wish he saw the same thing because he deserves to see that man. He deserves to feel like him. And I'm not sure he's ever felt like him.
"Why not?" I whisper, guiding him to his back as I crawl over him. When he momentarily freezes, I pause, remembering what he said earlier, about never touching people before me. "Is this okay? If it's too much, I can–"
He sits up beneath me, his hands clamped around my hips as he chases my mouth with his. "Don't you dare," he growls. "You're perfect right where you are. More than perfect."
"You said you didn't like people touching you."
"You're different. You can touch me anytime, anyplace." His tongue slips into my mouth, tangling with mine in a kiss that sends me spiraling. I grasp his shoulders, whimpering as my core clenches, heat rocketing through me in a delicious wave. Good grief. He's frightfully good at that. Or maybe we're good at it together. I'm not entirely sure. But I like the way he tastes. I like the way he growls and clings to me like he wants me as close as possible. And I really like the way he rocks me against him as if he's unable to stop himself from doing it.
"Brantley," I gasp, my back arching as he breaks the kiss, his lips trailing down my chest. His hands slip under my shirt, dragging it up my body. Within seconds, he's pulling it off over my head, leaving me writhing half-naked on top of him.
"Jesus, little bird." His wild gaze roves over me, the heat banked there setting me ablaze all over again. "You're so fucking pretty." His hands slide up my body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. "I may never stop touching you just to watch the way you shiver and moan in response."
"Yes, do that."
He grins, unhooking my bra before peeling it down my arms. I help him fling it away, completely lost in him and the look in his eyes as he devours me with a single glance.
"Fucking hell, little bird." He swallows hard, his eyes flickering from my chest to my face and then back again. "I need my mouth all over those."
"I'm not stopping you, Brantley." I run my fingers through his hair, tugging gently. "As a matter of fact, I can think of a few places I want my mouth too…"
"Oh, yeah?" He grins, his eyes dark with desire. "Like where?"
"Take your shirt off."
He leans against the back of the couch, jerking it off without another word. My gaze falls to his chest, my mouth going dry. Good grief. I knew he was gorgeous, but I was not remotely prepared for just how beautiful he is. The tattoos licking up his collarbones twist all the way down his sides in stark lines. Others litter his chest in bold colors and elegant lines. They're stunning against his golden skin and the thick, corded muscle beneath.
"You're beautiful," I whisper, tracing a fingertip along an angel's outstretched wing across his chest.
He shudders beneath me, his stomach muscles contracting.
I lean forward slowly, carefully, trying not to move too fast. I don't want this to feel uncomfortable for him, especially since letting people touch him is new. The fact that he's letting me do it makes me feel…special as hell.
"Jesus Christ," he groans, his voice strangled when I trace the lines of the tattoo down one collarbone. He wheezes out a curse, his hands locking around my hips when I trail my lips onto his chest, kissing and tasting him there too. His skin is so damn smooth, but there's nothing soft about him. He's steel encased in silk. "Fucking hell, Isla. You're killing me."
"That's the plan."
He growls, a sound that's all yes.
I rake my teeth across his flat nipple.
"Eek!" I squeak when I'm suddenly on my back beneath him, his body wedged between my legs.
"You're a dangerous, dangerous woman," he growls, his eyes on fire as he claims my mouth in a punishing kiss. I moan into it, arching beneath him.
His hands sear me as he runs them up my sides, touching me everywhere, teasing me. The second they close over my breasts I know I'm in serious trouble.
I break from his mouth with a soft cry, my head thrown back in ecstasy.
"You like that, huh?" he chuckles, kissing a hot trail down the side of my throat. His stubble scratches deliciously, making me whimper. "Jesus, I love the way you feel beneath me, little bird."
I'm loving it myself, especially with his hands and mouth on me. Maybe I should slow this down, tell him we need to pull back. We barely know each other. But I've been more real with him since I met him than I think I've ever been with anyone. And I'm pretty sure it's the same for him.
If there's a timeline for this, well, I'm pretty sure it went out the window before I told him about Marion. It definitely exited stage left before he made me come on his fingers earlier.
I don't want to slow down now. I want this. I want him.
"Brantley!" My hands fly to his hair, holding him to me when he wraps his lips around one nipple, pulling it into his mouth. The way he sucks and bites... It's like there's a cord between my nipple and clit. Every pull of his mouth tugs that cord, creating a delicious, corresponding tug on my clit.
His hands slip between us as he moves from one breast to the other, tugging at my pants. "I want these off, little bird. I want you naked."
"Yes," I gasp, willing to give him anything. I'm not shy about my body. I've been curvy since I was a teenager. Right about the time I got boobs, I got hips and a butt and a belly, too.
He tugs them gently down my legs, taking my panties with them. His gaze rakes over my naked body, the unrelenting desire in his eyes leaving me trembling and aching.
"Goddamn, you're gorgeous, little bird," he rasps, shaking his head like he's trying to make sense of how someone like him could end up here with someone like me. "So damn soft and sweet. You're going to have me coming all over myself again."
My gaze flies to his, my eyes wide. "You c-came on yourself earlier?"
He arches a brow, smirking at me. "What? You thought I wouldn't with that tight little pussy gripping me like it was? With you crying out my name while you soaked my hand? Yeah, I came, Isla."
Oh, my gosh. I love knowing that. Way more than I probably should.
"Plan to do it again when you let me in, baby," he murmurs, his hands skimming up my thighs as he settles himself between them again. "Right after I lick this pretty little thing until you cream on my tongue."
I whimper wordlessly, pretty sure I'm dripping all over the dang couch. Embarrassing amounts. I want him inside me. I want his mouth on me. Good lord. I think I'd agree to just about anything at this point.
My breath catches in my throat as he leans forward, nuzzling his face against me. His lips skim down my belly, and my muscles quiver in response. Hell, I think I quiver in response. In anticipation.
"You smell so fucking good," he groans, inching down the couch, down my body. His nose runs along the apex of my thigh as he inhales, and I freaking sob out loud.
"Brantley, please."
"Don't rush me, little bird. I've never done this before. I intend to make sure I do it right. Gotta make sure you're completely satisfied," he murmurs. "Otherwise, you won't let me keep doing it." He nips my inner thigh. "I already fucking know I need to keep doing it, baby. Jesus. My mouth is watering already."
I sob his name, my thighs trembling around his head. The way he speaks to me, holding nothing back, is so damn sexy to me. It's like he wants me to know him and what he thinks, how he feels. He gives me pieces of him no one else has as if he wants to make them mine.
"Brantley!" I sob when he lunges suddenly, burying his face in my center with a hungry growl. It rumbles right through me, striking all the way to my womb. My hips lift from the couch, a wave of intense bliss ripping through me.
His tongue spears into me, licking deep. Pleasure explodes through my body, sending me spiraling toward a powerful orgasm. I pull his hair, making him growl in response. The vibrations only heighten the sensation.
His lips close around my clit, sucking gently before he flicks his tongue over it in rapid strikes. Electric jolts radiate out from my core, igniting my entire body. My thighs clench around his head as I arch off the couch, sobbing his name.
"You taste so fucking good, little bird," he groans against me, spreading my legs wider. His tongue runs around my entrance before he stiffens it, thrusting it inside to fuck me with it.
I sob, my head thrashing as he works me over mercilessly, bringing me right to the edge.
His thumb pressing against my clit sends me tumbling over the edge.
I shatter with a sharp cry, falling to pieces around him.
"That's it," he croons. "Let me taste heaven. Keep coming for me."
God help me, I do. Until I can't breathe or think or feel anything but him between my legs, worshipping. It's loud and messy, and somehow, that makes it all that much more perfect.
He finally pulls back with a groan, placing a soft kiss to my clit as he rises to his knees to stare down at me, his eyes on fire and his face wet with my juices. "Damn, little bird," he pants, working on the zipper of his pants. "A motherfucker could live between your legs and not regret a second of it."
"Brantley," I moan, reaching for him. "Please."
He chuckles, delving his hand into his pants to pull his cock out.
I choke out a whimper, staring at him. He's so damn hard. So beautiful. I've seen dicks before. I'm a virgin, not a prude. Of course I've watched porn. But I've never seen one that looks as good as his—long and thick, the broad head slick with his juices.
My body ignites all over again, my core temperature rising to the nth degree. I need him inside me. Now.
"You look so fucking perfect right now," he rasps, stroking his cock as he gazes down at me, hunger stamped across his face. "All spread out for me, dripping wet and begging to be filled."
I moan, writhing as he lines the head of his cock up with my entrance, teasing me with shallow strokes that have my hips tilting desperately, trying to draw him inside me.
"Brantley, please," I whimper, my body coiled tight with need, every nerve ending sizzling and screaming for more.
"I've got you," he murmurs, leaning down to claim my mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue delves deep, tangling with mine as he stops teasing and slowly pushes forward, filling me.
I cry out against his mouth at the sweet burn, writhing beneath him. It doesn't really hurt. The tiny bite of pain weaving through the pleasure adds an edge that I like a little too much. He feels so damn good, like he was made for me.
"Fuck. You're so goddamn tight, Isla," he groans, pulling back slightly before rocking forward another inch.
My inner muscles clench around him.
"Oh, fuck," he groans, shuddering on top of me. His cock pulses inside me, and then I feel liquid heat splashing inside me as he comes, unable to hold back.
I moan loudly, my walls fluttering around him.
"Christ, I'm sorry," he grunts. "Feeling you wrapped around me has me so fucking worked up. I couldn't hold it off, little bird."
"It's kind of hot, Brantley," I whisper, raking my nails down his back. "I think I like knowing you're so worked up you just can't help yourself."
He groans again, a broken sound, and then kisses me hard, thrusting forward another inch. I gasp against his lips, earning a breathless chuckle from him.
"What? You thought I was done with you? Hell no, baby." He rocks his hips, driving himself deeper. "I'm just getting started. That was just me relieving the pressure. Now, the fun can begin." As if to illustrate his point, he withdraws until just the head of his cock remains inside me, and then slams himself back inside me.
I shout his name as a powerful blast of pleasure rips through me. He chuckles and does it again, and then again. Each thrust hits something deep inside, some hidden spot I didn't know existed. Stars erupt behind my eyelids again and again.
"Brantley," I sob, clawing his shoulders.
"That's it, little bird," he growls. "Take my cock. Let me ruin you for anyone else."
I think he already has. I'm pretty sure he did that before he was ever inside me. Ruined me. Unmade me. Made me fall for him. It's way too damn fast. And yet...it feels completely inevitable too.
He picks up speed, driving into me harder, deeper as he dips his head, wrapping his lips around my nipple again. He rakes his teeth over the hard bud, and I sob his name, lava sliding through my veins in an avalanche.
"I want to feel you coming all over me, Isla," he groans against my skin. "Milk my cock dry, baby."
He shifts the angle of his hips, grinding his pelvis against my clit with each powerful thrust. It's too much, the pleasure too intense.
"Brantley, oh god," I moan, digging my nails into his back as the coil inside me snaps, scattering me to the winds. Euphoria crashes over me, drowning me in bliss. I thrash beneath him, sobbing and babbling, pleading for more.
He flips us so I'm on top of him, lifting me up and down his cock with his hands around my waist. He's so much deeper this way.
"Christ, I could fuck you like this all night," he groans, releasing my waist to grab my ass. He grips my cheeks, spreading them as he bounces me on his cock. "That's what I want to do. Just keep you stuffed full of my cock and cum until you forget your own name."
"Brantley!" My voice breaks as his filthy words send me flying again. I shatter apart around him, coming hard.
He growls a curse, slamming me down on him. He holds me there, roaring as his cock jerks inside me and he comes too, spilling into me in a liquid rush. My name rumbles from his lips in a broken chant, his body trembling beneath mine.
I collapse on top of him, pressing my lips to his chest with a soft moan. I feel his heart thundering against them, pounding like a war drum.
"Never moving again," he whispers, wrapping his arms around me with a sigh. "Gonna stay right here with you."
My heart turns over in my chest, entire sections of it lighting up with his name. God, it's way too soon to be falling for this man. And yet...that's precisely what's happening here. I'm falling for him—every single broken piece of him—hard.